


metanoia

by Effei



Category: Shatter Me Series - Tahereh Mafi
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Character Study, F/M, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Original Character(s), dark!juliette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:53:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27083683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Effei/pseuds/Effei
Summary: A blinded ortolan bunting, obediently eating its last meal, and a man ready to devour the bird.
Relationships: Paris Anderson/Juliette Ferrars
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	metanoia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CupcakeGangsta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CupcakeGangsta/gifts).



> Metanoia transformative change of heart; especially: a spiritual conversion.
> 
> 1) challenge "get all of your headcanons into one work" is accepted.  
> 2) Juliette is dark here, which means no magical saving through petting session with warner.  
> 3) I have no idea what will happen next, to the extent that I still haven't decided if they will have sex or not, so tags, rating and blah blah blah, can change dramatically with a new chapter (which will be out in another 4 months, or years).  
> 4) important: ma dear boi anderson has serious troubles (no surprises here), which means that from time to time he sees “ghosts” of people important to him (read: aurora and evie).  
> 5) aurora! aurora is adam's and james' mom. I'm very very upset that she doesn't even have a name in canon. so I kind of fixed it.  
> 6) evie is his soulmate, don't @ me  
> 7) and remember, kids, bdsm is not always about sex.  
> 8) english isn’t my first language, so if you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out.

**I**

Juliette does the job flawlessly (as he said).

Juliette eliminates the threat within an hour (as he promised).

Juliette confronts Aaron one-on-one (as he expected).

Juliette turns out to be the stronger one (as he feared).

Juliette turns out to be perfect.

_Absolutely perfect._

_***_

Paris whispers "good girl" right into her ear as Juliette goes through the floors like hurricane Katrina. She leaves dead bodies in her wake, they lay in the corners of the corridors like gutted rag dolls (death of enemies and allies, who trapped in the loops of her poisonous touch, is equally quick and painful). She lures Nazeera into a trap with the dexterity of the Pied Piper of Hamelin (plays on her childhood affection for Emmaline) and twists Kishimoto's neck as soon as he shows his face (he doesn't have time to finish his 'it’s me, princess' or to realize fatality of the mistake).

Aaron is left alone with her: a loser in advance (because he's still in love, which means he's weak; because he still cannot hurt her; because he still believes that she can be saved). Juliette throws him around the room like a baseball, overhears words about Ella and past life and engagement (when did **that** happen?), great love and kindred spirits. Juliette is a loner, she has no family, no past (he is nobody; he is _nothing_ ); Juliette is a weapon, she has an order from the Supreme Commander and a desire to do everything right and on time (time is running out); Juliette is another man's shadow, only one single voice is important to her (and it does not belong to Aaron; not anymore).

They (the surviving Founders) silently watch how the game of cat and mouse gets her bored just as quickly as her master (“I can see, you don’t want to shut up willingly, well, I’ll help you gladly”). For a second (just a second), Paris thinks that she will kill Aaron and he will lose his son (because of her, again, this time for good), but Juliette is still the most obedient and devoted girl on the planet, Juliette still obeys his orders ( _neutralize, but do not kill)_ , so she presses her hand on Aaron's neck until he loses consciousness, and then hauls him (barely alive) onto her fragile shoulders. She does not bend under his weight, does not feel fatigue or heaviness, does not feel pain from wounds inflicted in the fight (all the improvements that Evie gave to her body manifest themselves, allowing her to stand on her feet even after an exhausting fight).

The cameras capture her stubborn gaze, and desire to kill appears inside his head with lightning speed (the instinct of self-preservation doesn't allow him to forget even for a split second what she is really capable of; the instinct of self-preservation doesn't allow him to forget even for a split second how she looked when she first shot him — exactly like right now). Paris closes his eyes (only her breathing and footsteps, rhythmic like the beat of a metronome, can be heard in the earpiece) while fear creeps inside his own body (even immortality, that now runs through his veins, can't erased it). Worry doesn't disappear from his heart, its only covers itself with a thin web of peace for those two days, when she faithfully follows on his heels, inhaling and exhaling at his command. Her 'yes, sir' is like the tricks of a trained lion under the bright tent of du Soleil — exciting but short-lived. He was behind the scenes, he knows the truth: trying to control Juliette is like trying to control the elements: sooner or later she will destroy you (there's a reason why ninety percent of cobra spellcasters die in their sleep, stung by their own snakes). The desire to finally do what should've been done ten years ago: to cut out a malignant tumor that almost cost all of them their lives, recedes inward, like an ocean from the shore, ready to hit Juliette with a deadly wave of a nine-point tsunami.

_Kill._

That's the right thing to do.

It's safer this way.

(perhaps in ten years he fuses with hatred too much; perhaps a cut off finger is too little for the forgiveness of all past sins)

Azi pats him on the shoulder (friendly), brings him to his senses.

"Well, the girl is very capable! You know, too bad she's as good as dead."

The reminder that her days are numbered sobers him up more than enough.

Juliette (this Juliette; his Juliette; Juliette the revolutionary; Ella; sister of Emmaline; the second half of Synthesis; Executioner, living in the shadow of the Architect) — from the tip of the nose to her toes is a patented creation of Evie. She's a fallback, an emergency exit, nothing more than a name on the waiting list.

Juliette has very little time left: a couple of weeks, maybe a month. As soon as Emma's body stops breathing, as soon as her remains are thrown into the ocean, and her mind is locked in a new host, everything will return to normal. The centrifuge will start with twice the usual rate, and will be spinning-spinning-spinning around its axis, until this shell is also rubbed into dust (ten years? twenty? how long will this renewed body last?). Emma will live, finally broken down by the death of Ella (the only one for whom she felt at least some semblance of a human love), while Juliette will lay at the bottom of the ocean, silently watching while the bones of her sister (her own bones) are gnawed by predatory fish.

"Just imagine what she could do as our Executioner! It's such a pity to miss this chance."

Paris takes a breath to calm the awakened rage (at her, for not resisting when the time comes? at himself, for not wanting to give her up? at everyone else, for wanting to take her away?). A reminder of her predetermined fate is spreading over the surface of raging hatred like an oil film. He reminds himself that they're no longer enemies, that she would never try to take away everything that she can (his son, his power, his freedom, his life), they're no longer on opposite sides of the fence. She wants to get another praise from him, not to kill him. He recalls her mild "are you all right, sir?" and buries the old Juliette (alternately possessed by the pacifist ideas of peace in the whole world and the thirst for revenge; alternately in love with Adam and Aaron) where she still has a place: in the depths of his own memory.

That Juliette is just a bad dream.

She will never return, she is no longer a threat.

_They're on the same side now._

**II**

She throws Nazeera at Ibrahim's feet without saying a word. Paris sees the familiar sparks of anger in her blue-green eyes and realizes that even this Juliette (the perfect Juliette) remains reckless and vindictive enough to respond to the threat of her own life without a hint of fear. Instead of revolutions and palace coups she uses tete-a-tete conversations and blatant violation of subordination (not so rude, but no less loud and defiant).

“It wasn't necessary.”

Tatiana's remark is ignored: the billiard ball slipped past the pocket. She's (almost-a-family-member in the past; almost-an-enemy right now) cut out of the discussion, her eyes burning with disapproval (of Juliette, of him, of Musa), but she doesn't dare to come closer, doesn't dare to ask gnawing question.

"What's done is done, Ti", Azi snaps his fingers, pulls her attention to himself, "the threat has passed, and this is the only thing that matters. Don't go on the girl, she did her job almost flawlessly."

Among the surviving friends, he still remains a loyal (and now the only one) ally.

"Fly to your master, little bird."

Juliette does not move — she does not hear anyone around — she only looks at Musa, like a rattlesnake ready to attack. He, who has never come face to face with her rage before, doesn't immediately understand that Nazeera is by no means a gift under a Christmas tree; that, by dragging his daughter to the laboratory, Juliette disobeyed the order, not the other way around; that his words "she won't cope, and we will pay for this" bugged her more than they should've. His lips curls with displeasure, gaze fills with anger, his fingers clench into a fist. Their silent confrontation is prolonged, it becomes dangerous. If Musa was less careful, he would've hit her (Paris cannot remember even a single woman who has shown such disobedience and hasn't lost her eyes or life); if Juliette was less unusual, she would've dropped to her knees, clutching her fractured jaw with both palms (he's heavy-handed).

"You're dismissed."

Words full of warnings don't ring any alarm bells, don’t put even a one drop of sanity in her, only add anger to the look. A quick change in mood makes others nervous: a satisfied smile disappears from Azi's face, Tatiana reaches for the scalpel left on the table (as if it can save her), Max squeezes the bridge of his nose, muttering “it was a bad idea, I knew it was bad, she shouldn't be released".

Nazeera comes to her senses at the very wrong time and immediately tries to escape, but doesn't even have time to get on her feet, Juliette catches her like a cat catches a mouse. Neither abilities can protect its mistress from attack; she's in torment, disappears and reappears like a short-circuited garland for the whole ten seconds, until she passes out again. A satisfied smile doesn't leave Juliette's face while she turns Nazeera onto her back with the toe of her boot (one light kick is enough to break the poor soul's ribcage and kill her). The curiosity that burns her gaze resonates within Paris because he instantly recognizes it. This constant urge to learn something new, often regardless of the consequences and generally accepted rules. An interest that always feels more like hunger.

(can a silkworm fly away, if you rip off its bottom pair of wings? no, but it will try, rising and falling, until it's exhausted or crushed)

Proud.

He probably feels _proud_.

"Get away from her!", Musa is angry, and Paris can understand him (he was angry at her countless times). Musa points a gun at her, and Paris thinks that this is not the best solution (Juliette is already looking at him without the slightest drop of fear, the weapon will only make her angrier). Azi and Tatiana freeze in fear, because they hadn't previously observed her work this close: to watch her deal with enemies, sitting in the safety of the laboratory, and to see how easily she almost took the life of the heiresses, right under their noses, not at all the same thing. The first is fun, even praiseworthy; the second raises panic and doubts.

"Juliette."

Paris intervenes (urgently) before Ibrahim would try to grab her arm (again) and drag her to certain death (if someone has told him a week ago, that he would rush to protect the obnoxious girl from his own allies, from his own friends, he would've laugh until his ribs hurt). Paris intervenes (urgently), and Juliette reacts to his voice with the sensitivity of a harrier, who heard the master's whistle (if someone has told her a week ago, that she would rush to protect him and look at him adoringly, she would also laugh, even louder than him).

Her gaze (the pupils are huge, almost completely displacing the iris, she is _that_ aroused) obediently loses all hostility, the same second she pays attention to him:

"Sir?"

The Gordian knot of tension cut in pieces by that short question. Her desire to kill and maim feels at his fingertips, as if it's his own. A smile blooms on the lips (wide, open, full of pleasure [it becomes a habit of theirs]), when his ear picks up a familiar intonation (completely inaudible to strangers, but they have enough of shared past to _hear and understand_ ).

"Paris, God damn you!"

Ibrahim barks his name like a guest cornered by the master's dog. A ripple of displeasure runs across Juliette's face, when she hears sheer aggression, but she doesn't dare to move closer until she hears a direct order. Their bond is still working (the leash is still gripped tightly in his hand).

"Come to me", his voice is deliberately quiet and soft, even gentle (in contrast to the sharp order, which was never followed by her submission), but it's enough. Juliette doesn't question his decision; obediently stands behind (Paris takes a step forward, hides her from Ibrahim's incinerating gaze in his own shadow).

Nazeera is carried away; Musa exhales with relief.

“Howard, Nate, George and Philip are dead. Jen and Madi are seriously injured. How are you going to compensate for this, Paris? We took your word, again, and we pay the price for your negligence. _Again_. You promised that the children would not be able to step inside unnoticed, and they not only were able to do it, they also killed one of us!"

He tries to continue the interrupted conversation in the presence of others. He tries to regain his influence, to enlist the support of the surviving conspirators, by pointing to the corpse covered with a white sheet. He tries to remind that they (Tatiana, Azi, Max, Musa) are all on the same page: they have a noble goal and no time. He tries to remind that he (Paris) is a dead weight that they should get rid of long ago. Juliette (who's heard this all an hour ago) steps forward; Paris (who's heard this a hundred times in the past) steps back. She crashes into his back: he orders her not to interfere.

"It seems to me now is not the best time to quarrel, we just put everything in order, this showdown won't help now. This is unreasonable. We must work together."

On another day, Musa would've listened to Azi's words. On another day, he would've retreated. But after Juliette's vagary, after he had to ask for help, after he had to give up pride, it's no longer seem possible.

"You want to know what's really unreasonable? Give a hundred chances to someone who has proven that he cannot be relied on. First Evie, now Santiago. Who else must die for you to finally start doing your job properly?"

Castill's death doesn't bring even the slightest bit of regret out, but the way Musa carelessly throws Evie's death in his face, in an accusatory tone, as if Paris is responsible for what has happened, brings the desire to test Juliette's loyalty once again. This time on a former friend who (a week after the funeral), somehow manages to forget that _his loyalty_ has never belonged to the Reestablishment. And Eve is not here to dissuade him from the reckless idea. Rude _'you are not worthy to stand among us',_ disgruntled _'your problems are becoming a real liability'_ , contemptuous _'what have you done this time?'_ pop up in his head like a series of polaroid images: Paris has not learned to forget the grievances. The thought about murder, which has been gathering dust in the backyard of his subconscious for a long time, takes on a clear outline. It saturates with his vengefulness and a sudden desire to protect Juliette, just like fallen seeds saturate with water, becomes noticeably heavy, sprouts from an abstract idea into a clear plan of action. One word, one whisper, one gesture will be enough. The execution will be instant. Juliette will tear the body in half, or she will rip out his heart (just like she did with Evie), and no one will have time to stop her. Musa will fall to his knees, choking on his own blood. She will kill him in seconds. And she will smile after (like a day ago with Darius; like three minutes ago with Nazeera), looking at the world with those huge curious eyes.

Then she will kill everyone else.

And she won't stop until the walls of the capital fall on her head.

“ _Or until you tell her to stop."_

She spins a web in the far corner of his head, day-by-day, like a spider, using scraps of old memories to shape and paint herself beautifully; finally brings herself to life, turns from gentle whisper into a full-fledged image, steps out of the shadows.

Examines Juliette from head to toe with those clever eyes.

_"We created something perfect, right?”_

The youngest student in the history of Hopkins University, the woman who brought the whole world to its knees. She consists of dozens of small anachronistic details. Hazelnut curls tied with a charoite ribbon. A loose curl, framing the face like a shiny crescent. Alpaca suit under a white lab coat. Titanium and silver jewelries on slender wrists. And the scent, which was most prominent on the slope of the neckline and at the bends of the elbows (Kenrokuen Garden in the late spring: withering parma violet, barely blossoming buds of a damask rose, broken branches of white cedar, stones heated by the sun).

Evie hasn't changed her tastes (he hasn't changed his memories).

She smiles (red lips against the bloodless face look like an open wound), and shakes her head condemningly (habitually expresses her displeasure with barely noticeable gestures, not words). Her presence (not entirely normal, macabre, though very coveted) cools his head like a cold from the grave.

 _"But she's young, she doesn't realize yet that murder and physical violence aren't always the right or only choice; doesn't know that not all battles are won with someone else's blood"_ , a soft voice imbued with calmness makes him unclench his fingers an inch away from hidden Beretta. As always. Even in death, her slightest gesture is enough to make him obey. _“You know that Ibrahim's ostentatious gesture of power is not really worth anything. Show it to her. Traitors ...”_

_".. are born into families of traitors."_

Evie (out of old habit) takes some part of his mind for herself; Evie (out of old habit) shows him a way out; Evie (out of old habit) saves his life.

Even if she visits him as a ghost.

"Nazeera."

"What?"

"Nazeera is still alive, although she ..."

“Be glad it’s so, Paris,” he interrupts, “otherwise you would be dead now. And don't you dare to think it's enough to make me forget what you did. Or that I will turn a blind eye to what your little…"

"Nazeera killed Santiago." He doesn't give Musa time to argue with what he just said: turns seemingly solid ground under his feet into quicksand. “And she also hacked the system to give Aaron and Kishimoto a let-pass. Without her intervention, they could not have been able to walk more than ten meters without getting caught. If I didn't leave her alive, none of this wouldn't have happened. This is the second time we're paying the price for not eliminating the threat immediately. _First Evie, now Santiago.”_

Paris repeats word for word the phrase said a minute ago, polarizes the situation in his own favor (as usual, he remains three steps ahead of the others).

"I'd also be dead, if not for the acquired immortality. According to the Code, she should've faced death sentence for betrayal when she brought the invisible one to Oceania. Now this is a full-fledged murder, and not just the Supreme, but the Founder (I'm ready to forget the attempt on my life, she is by no means the first one who tried to get rid of me; **and failed** )."

The voice is deliberately calm, carefree.

_"You never worried about your own death before, why worry about it now, my dear?"_

"But you still get Nazeera alive and practically unharmed. However, if you want to follow the protocols, you can ask for a vote, and if the Council finds her guilty of crimes against the Reestablishment, then the sentence will be executed right here and now."

Anger flares up in Ibrahim when he realizes that he's cornered (again).

He, who has only relied on the power of his own name and crystal clear reputation all his life, cannot protect his daughter without raising question about his loyalty to Reestablishment and ideas of the brand new world.

The eternal problem for people, who create a set of rules by which they live, becomes a stick in the craw for Musa.

Daughter or commitment to his word.

Daughter or reputation.

Daughter.

 _"Dead or alive"_ , Eve hides her hands in the pockets of a lab coat, smiling.

“If you can't do it yourself, no one will blame you. I can always ask Juliette to do this."

Paris kills the (still unripe) conspiracy at the very root (reminds everyone whose orders the Executioner actually obeys). 

"Enough", Max throws a displeased glance in his direction.

"Unlike your son, Nazeera knows what loyalty means", Musa tries to get their attention back, but the moment is lost. At least for today. He gathers his thoughts, steps back, chooses a new defense strategy. “She was influenced by Emmaline. If it weren't for those tricks, Nazeera would've never betrayed either me or the Reestablishment, and you all know that. We need to get rid of the girl. And I want to do it now.”

Musa steps forward; Paris immediately pushes Juliette behind his back.

_Don't you dare to come closer._

"We can't rush." Tatiana speaks first, unknowingly saves everyone from the bloody denouement of the conflict (his irritation doesn't have time to turn into real rage). “We've lost four key scientists working on Synthesis. We lost Santiago and Evie. We can't risk it."

"Give me at least a few days, Ibrahim. You know that I want to get rid of her more than anyone else, and I will do everything in my power to make it happen as quickly as possible, but not now."

Of her.

Of Juliette.

Max still hates her. And he's afraid of her. Just like the others.

Who would've thought that in the end of the day, he would be the only one who isn't afraid of her.

“Find a way to speed up this process, Max, or I'll do it for you."

Musa casts a venomous glance in Juliette's direction (Paris still holds her behind his back), and leaves to make sure that his daughter is taken care of. Nazeera will be placed among the others, in an artificial coma, where she will be protected by a glass dome, till they sort out the rebels' mess, till Juliette takes the place of her older sister, till any threat is eliminated once and for all. Sooner or later, the children will be woken up, their memories erased, three dozen tests conducted on them by lab rats in white lab coats. And then, and only then, they will be allowed to return under the welcoming parental wing.

There will be six of them again; they will live on different continents, disunited, unable to trust each other.

Emma and Ella will turn into ghosts of girls, who drowned in the lake years ago.

For all of them.

Even for Aaron.

This time for good.

**III**

The traces of a massacre are cleared before the morning shift arrives. Broken glass is replaced, the walls are covered with a new layer of paint, a dozen of bodies (collateral damage) are burned in the crematorium (loyal, traitorous and rebels along; only a handful of ashes will remain at this temperature). The building (a disturbed anthill) freezes in anticipation of a new day (as if nothing has happened).

When the sun is at its zenith, the nomination of the new Supreme of South America will be certified by the Council; his name announced at an unscheduled meeting of the continent's regents.

There are no irreplaceable parts in this system.

_Except for one._

Juliette examines Aivazovsky's "Chesme battle" with her eyes (Paris knows painting by heart, he’s spend hours looking at the sinking wreckage of Turkish ships and the bright reflection of a flame on the water). She stands motionless and quiet. Slender hands (the only physical trait inherited from her mother) behind her back, finders beat out a silent rhythm.

"This is the original.” The words spark new interest in her. Juliette (albeit not completely) realizes the significance and uniqueness of what is in front of her. "One of three dozen paintings that were restored after the fire in a gallery."

“I thought that the paintings to be destroyed, as well as books."

Paris doesn't deny himself a glance at the canvas. He looks at the perfectly restored original and remembers places where there used to be cracks, dents, debris, where paint burnt out from the temperature. Six months of work, documented stages in her workbooks provide an opportunity to imagine the restoration process in the smallest details. Day after day. Centimeter by centimeter. Two years spent in Peterhof in the company of Konstantin and two dozen restorers. Thirteen canvases. And rare time they've spent together, when Paris was nearby (even for a few days or hours). She smelled of varnishes and paint thinners, told him about the romantics of the nineteenth century and made copies of Courbet's works for fun. He watched-listened-remembered; handed her small gifts from all over the world, no matter the place he was thrown in by the never-ending hunt (the skull of a big kudu and a stuffed southern royal albatross were the first ones that took place in her studio among artist's biographies, synthetic brushes and canvases; they became a beginning of a _tradition_ ). They (him and her) were stuck for months in different countries and time zones. She celebrated her birthday in the company of her colleagues and six bottles of sweet Jurançon, while Paris put fresh ink on his body, to hid scars from unsuccessful encounters with the Unnaturals.

Five years later, they finally celebrated together. Konstantin bought out "Battle" from a private collection and brought it as a present for her thirtieth birthday, along with a bottle of Altesse de Montagnieu Bugey (if two of them shared anything besides his own affection, it was the love for the seascape painters and wines of the western appellation of Savoie). Paris handed her the keys to a house in the Pacific Palisades (away from the smog, close to the Pacific Ocean). Pomegranate garden enclosed by a high fence. Private beach filled with white sand. Weekly market ten minutes away. A kitchen for him, an art studio for her. And a couple of hundred square meters between, not to die from boredom in their own private paradise.

At that moment, looking at the painting in the new house (their new home), everything seemed possible.

Then there was a wedding. With Leila. And secrets that became more and more difficult to hide (they still saw each other rarely, although they lived in the same state; he never forgot to remove wedding ring from his finger before arriving). There was a mother-in-law, obsessed with public opinion, who liked to pry and snoop around (and the private detectives she hired, whom he fed to a school of large barracudas at the Gulf of Mexico). And there was the truth that still surfaced, no matter how careful he was. Untimely. Ugly. It left him with an empty house, a short note “please, return to your _real_ family,” and an endless year of solitude.

He was several days late (while he was putting holes in strangers' heads and covering his tracks, Agatha was already waiting at their house).

When they met again, Adam was already six months old (one glance between him and a child was enough for them both to immediately dislike each other). When she allowed him to return for good, Adam has already knew how to say "mom" and Paris couldn't get rid of him, even if he really wanted to. She divided her attention unevenly (her son was the only one who managed to become more important than paintings, exhibitions and saving the world's heritage by donations of her own works for auctions). There were quarrels (many of them) and long explanations. There were conversations when he still couldn't tell her the whole truth (she didn't want to know). There were attempts to persuade her to return home (more failings). She punished him by refusing to leave tiny small Plymouth (stubbornly agreed to the offered job as an art teacher at a local school; made friends and acquaintances who invited her to Sunday services and Wednesday dinners). Paris accepted punishment (for the first and last time in his life admitting that he _deserved_ it), put up with her decisions and ultimatums. Put up with other people in her life.

Plymouth was blown away by a hurricane (affectionately named Tammy in newscasts).

She returned with him to California, to a house on the very edge of the ocean, with a private beach and a pomegranate garden.

He put up with James.

There were more secrets (he took Adam to Evie, where Ella was instantly embraced with compassion and desire to protect him; she hid prescriptions for drugs and painkillers; quietly faded away without saying a word until it was too late).

He was several years late (even Evie, who could do the impossible, couldn't help; no one could).

After, it often seemed that he has lost her on the day she learned about the betrayal, when Agatha showed up at the studio and told about Leila and Aaron. All the time that they've spent together after (days, weeks, rarely months) was borrowed. Breakup hung over his head like a guillotine, because _loving someone doesn't mean trusting them, forgiving doesn't mean forgeting_. He waited for the moment when the truth (which has become much more disgusting over the years) would emerge again. And she won't pick up the phone again. And he will return to an empty house again, there will be no note. And she will appear somewhere in Canada, again in a small town, where the only significant event is the maple syrup festival in early April.

Or in Belize, right on time for the celebration of the Baron Bliss's day (James will be looking delightfully at the noisy crowd and will reach out to them with both his hands).

Or in Mexico, or Alaska.

Anywhere.

But not in the graveyard.

(he always believed that he would die first)

After the funeral all that remained were two children of hers, long list of works and their home. The choice was obvious: he let Evie take the kids and kept the drawings for himself (there was more Aurora in the black and white pencil sketches than in both of her sons). He never asked Evie about successes and failures; deliberately ignored the reports she's send; drowned grief in a glasses (bottles) of Japanese whiskey and reread notes on numerous restorations. He wandered for hours on an empty beach as a restless ghost, fell asleep right on the ground (hoping that sooner or later it would open up and swallow him whole).

Paris preferred to suffer (and to work) completely alone.

And then, one of the endlessly long days, when the pain in the wounded palm became especially painful and throbbing, a Christmas miracle has happened. Right in the beginning of summer.

Aurora worked in the studio again. She sipped wine from her favorite cup with a black cat, hummed the part of King George from Hamilton (painted caricature of the Supreme Court Justices with oils). She said that that was an order for a private collection, and that she has already decided where she would donate the second half of the payment. The longer he sat next to her, the dumber the pain became. The more detailed the picture became, the further the desperate retreated (allowing him to breathe normally again). The more mediums she used, the dirtier the palette got, the more happy he felt.

She ran a brush smeared with lead white over her lips, and it tasted like honey sweetness on his tongue. Paris closed his eyes (he was loosing consciousness), rested his head on her lap.

No more splitting pain.

_Finally._

Then Eve came (no one else would dare to invade his grief so unceremoniously); she opened windows, letting in salty air and sound of storm waves (the ocean had been out of sorts for a whole week). The curtains, raised by the wind, looked like long tails of the chrysaora jellyfish.

Eve lowered a fever: chased the wonderful vision away.

Eve pulled out a piece of coral from a decaying wound: pulled _him_ out of the other side.

“I gave you a month to lick old wounds, not to open up new ones." And then she added, “They want to take away my access and give Emma, _my Emma_ , to Omondi's blockheads. I need you there."

I. _Need_. You.

Eve has never needed anyone in her life, except for herself.

"Choose."

Paris knew that she rarely gave anyone a real choice, but the magazine in the gun left on the table was filled with bullets, and her condolences were full of sympathy. She was ready to say goodbye, to let him go.

This time, for good.

_(because she was horrified of what she saw)_

Choose.

And he had.

_He choose her._

From that moment on, one of the paintings was always with him, wherever he had to go / sail / fly. As a (reminder) talisman.

From time to time, Aurora visited him. Sometimes she looked reproachfully. Sometimes she joked. Sometimes she just talked. As if nothing has happened. As if everything was the same.

_"there's blood on the collar, honey"_

“ _i don’t understand why they would arrange public executions, as if those whom you and your boys kill in dark alleyways are not enought”_

_"i think they will rip themselves to pieces without your help, just wait"_

“ _no, not eugene delacroix. paris, if you let them burn "freedom" I will never speak to you again. do you hear me? never"_

_"get up, honey, you won't die in this ditch"_

_"most of all i miss the time when I could draw"_

Sometimes she was silent, usually she was silent. Sat there smoking.

All nine years.

All nine years that the picture is on the wall, away from direct sunlight. All nine years that he had been looking at the sinking Turks and the moon emerging from the clouds.

Part of him wants to share this revelation with Juliette (after all, he can tell her anything he wants, because she will listen, and then she will take this conversation to the grave).

"Sir?"

But, instead of a long confession, it turns out to be a short one:

“I would kill anyone who tries to burn it."

"Is it that important to you?"

Her interest is as genuine, as the canvas is original. Probably, this is the only thing that remains in her from the former Juliette (besides stubbornness): an irresistible desire to know everything at once. A bunch of questions that she isn't able to keep inside (like in the bedroom the other day).

But Evie is still the only one with whom he can talk about her (Evie is dead, so there will be no more conversations).

"The attachment to this sea battle is one of the few sentimental trifles. that I've allowed myself during my entire period of work here."

Aurora remains a secret sealed with seven seals (a secret that he will never entrust Juliette, no matter how many times she proves her reliability). The battle takes on a new story (less tragic and more acceptable; banal).

"It's drawn very nicely. Realistic. I like burning ships. There's a feeling of... horror on the faces of drowning people. This artist was very talented."

She likes the canvas because _he_ likes it. Juliette sees in it a new part of his personality, a gesture of trust, a revelation, but not the genius of Aivazovsky (art was never on the list of her interests, even in her past life, now even more so). He could fix it; he could show her the sunken treasures of Atlantis and the burnt-out library of Alexandria, lead her through the underground Louvre, let her feel the silence in the corridors of closed galleries and museums (from the Metropolitan to Soumaya). He could instill in her interest in canvases and paints, teach her to distinguish Biedermeier masters from those who were painting verism. Teach her _to see_ , just as he had been taught. An interlocutor who is not obsessed with a crusade against the only worthwhile thing that humanity has done, would be pleasant company. Even if only for a couple of weeks.

An hour remains before the start of the working day (cameras will start recording every second of what is happening); a little more than a month remains before her execution (enough to be imbued with the beauty of the Danish Golden Age). He continues to talk about the flagship of the "Three Hierarchs" to which the boat with the crew of the fire-ship Ilyin approaches; she continues to listen carefully.

_A blinded ortolan bunting, obediently eating its last meal, and a man ready to devour the bird._

**IV**

Her trust in others turns out to be as fragile as their own belief that she can be tamed (other people's threats do not pass her mind easily, each is stuck like a thorn inside her head).

Juliette plays for time, refuses to start a conversation. Anxiety paralyzes her body more and more with every hour of the routine. Paris allows her to build sand castles out of fears and doubts (they will remain on the shore, untouched by the water, when she won't receive any answers to her questions). He sees how it becomes more difficult for her to swallow, how her hands tremble when she drinks water from a bottle, how her skin becomes covered with sweat, how she tries to imperceptibly transfer weight from her left leg to her right and vice versa, unable to stand still (like a scarecrow on the wind), how she curls up from the melodic sound of the telephone ring (by that time, the headache presses its long fingers to her temples for the four hours).  
  
Juliette plays for time, and endures waves of fear and anxiety with a stoicism worthy of the Hellenistic founders. Paris continues to review candidates for the regency ( sectirs 45, 264 and 315); decides on the resettlement of people, and gives orders for several executions (checks how long she will last).

In total, nine and a half hours.

When Juliette finally decides to break the silence, the whites of her eyes are covered with a cobweb of burst blood vessels, there are traces of dried tears on her cheeks.

"What did he want to do to me, sir?"

 **He**. Ibrahim.

Paris destabilizes wiretapping bugs hidden in bookshelves (such conversations are best to be held without extra ears). He keeps her away from contemplation of Aivazovsky's painting, focuses all of her attention on physical touch: takes Juliette's hand, gently touches the place where index finger is missing (proof of her willingness to atone for her guilt and his willingness to forgive her mistakes).

"Are you scared of him?"

"No, it's not fear, rather... _anger_. I'm not sure if this is right thing to feel." Juliette shares her fears, emotions, worries without a second of hesitation. It's not her fault that pushes her to this, she doesn't try to apologize for a past mistake, or to prove her loyalty in this way, she doesn't try to follow the given orders, she is just very exhausted and confused. She's lost. Therefore, she is looking for answers from the only person in whom she has not yet lost her trust. “I’m not supposed to behave like that? Shouldn't feel irritated, shouldn't want to...”

"Kill him?"

Paris sees it: relief on her face when he suggests the right word, when he says it without judgment or fear (his approval is still vital to her).

"So you wanted to kill him, Juliette?"

The question is more out of curiosity than because of concern. He knows what she wants to (they both know), he just wonders what she will answer herself. Will she dare to lie, as she dared to disobey earlier. Will she dare to confess, risking to end up on the gallows for treason (they executed people for less, she knows it).

"Yes, sir", anxiety opens up its claws (sand castles on the shore collapse under the weight of ocean water). “I wanted to kill him."

 _Joy_. He listens to her quiet, but confident "yes" and feels _joy_. The frankness and honesty of this Juliette delights him in the same way as courage and stubbornness of the last one.

He recalls a blue diamond from a mine in northern Côte d'Ivoire. The bloody treasure, that Azi put into hands of one of the mainland's finest cutters, was the first and only piece of jewelry that awoke pure delight inside of Paris. He looked at impeccable proportions and symmetry (hundreds of blue faces caught the sun's rays, reminding him of the endless expanse of the ocean); he looked at how long and painstaking work allowed the muddy stone to acquire its unique beauty and become a real piece of art.

He looked at it and saw _perfection_ ; the same perfection that he now sees in Juliette.

“And you want to know if it’s right to want to harm the people you have to protect, if they want to harm you?”

They look each other in the eye. 

A sadist to sadist.

A killer to killer.

_(their irises are colored identicaly)_

Paris takes her face in his palms (so that she would accurately understand every word he says, so that she would not turn away), tenderly runs his thumbs along the line of the cheekbones (spots of feverish blush bloom on her whitened cheeks).

“If you feel threatened, you can kill anyone who tries to harm you."

Her pupils become wider when she understands the true meaning of what is being said.

_Even them?_

Even them.

“Yes, sir, I understand now."

She smiles and he smiles back at her. For the first time in twelve years, a thin thread becomes noticeably heavy, turns into a heavy rope, tied like a sea knot around their necks.

“Good girl, don't think about it anymore."

Paris gives an order. Juliette obeys.

The worry in her eyes finally fades, gives way to indifference.

The order remains in her subconscious, like a song from which only a melody remains. He is calm, because he knows that at the right moment the right words will be found.

_Kill them._

_Kill them all._

_Kill anyone who stands in your way._


End file.
